


No Search, All Rescue

by Arsenic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Families of Choice, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Chris is upholding a treaty with another hunting family when he discovers they've been holding a pretty familiar looking wolf.  Yeah, that won't do.





	No Search, All Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the mods at WIP BB for giving me the impetus to finish this, ihearttwojacks for the beta which helped clarify a lot of elements in this story and polish it up, and twisted_slinky for the pretty pretty shiny artwork, which really completes the fic.
> 
> Started before S6, finished after 6A, basically presume canon through 5.

[](https://ibb.co/fqU3e5)  
" 

Chris isn't ashamed that his instinctive response to seeing the wolf in the cage is a mental, "Really?" Because, honestly, Hale isn't so much a magnet for trouble as he is a black hole. It's mindblowing.

Mike Raylan notices where his gaze has gone and smirks. "Not fighting as hard as he was a few weeks ago, but he still gives a bit of a show now and then. Business first, though."

Chris swallows back bile and a scathing retort. They've had the kid for a few weeks, then. Could be worse. Could be better. A lot better. 

Then again, at least the Raylans found themselves infested with a nest of wendigos. A nest is rare; wendigos survive best as single family units. That said, when one manages to form, it's almost impossible to exterminate. In numbers, wendigos are a serious, and terrifying, problem. They necessitate calling in back up. Which is why Chris is there, upholding a treaty made two generations before him.

He supposes, in Hale's case, that's something like good luck. Close enough.

Chris has never been a fan of the Raylans. Their code is a lot more, "We hunt those who seem shiny to us," than anything else. But he tries not to be the guy who breaks decades-old truces if he can help it.

Evidently, he's about to be that guy.

*

Chris can't act immediately. For one thing, the wendigos are a legitimate problem and need to be taken care of. The Raylans might be a waste of air and space, but the denizens of the greater metro area of Minnesota's twin cities are mostly just people, good, bad, and in between. And it isn't the Raylans the wendigos are preying on. No, wendigos seek out easy prey: the young, the old, the ill.

_We protect those who can't protect themselves._

Chris bites his cheek and swallows blood. He does a whole lot more of that his first night in the Raylan's home, when they electrify the cage Derek is in until the wolf is convulsing, then prod him out of it. With cattle prods.

They take him out back, and Chris wants nothing more than to make his excuses, to not watch, but it feels like betrayal. If he can't get Derek out just yet, he needs to be there. If nothing else, it will mean someone actually cares. Derek's shown no signs of recognition, which might be Derek's way of protecting Chris—and he would, Chris knows that—or it might be a sign of degrading awareness. Chris desperately hopes it's the former. Still, someone should be there who isn't enjoying his pain.

They force him into a circled enclosure and connect a line of mountain ash to keep him in. Then—and Chris comes perilously close to being sick at this—they set the ring surrounding him on fire. Unsurprisingly, Derek panics. He's a big wolf, and it's not a large circle. The heat alone would be terrifying for any normal wolf, any normal _person._

Darlene Raylan, Mike's wife, laughs, low and hearty. "You'd almost think he was a real wolf, the way fire scares him."

Chris closes his eyes for a second because it's just now that he's realizing they don't even know who they have. It's possible Derek was in wolf form when they caught him, or they just don't know what he looks like, but either way, they stumbled onto fire as a way to torment him. Which means they went through other options.

Of course, that's somewhat obvious. Derek's coat is matted and limp. His ribs are showing and his shoulder blades form a sharp tent. He's limping on his left back leg, and there are cudgel and whip wounds over the whole of his frame that aren't healing. It takes a lot to get a were weakened to where he won't heal, especially a born one who's managed the full shift. Starving him and putting him in rings of fire are clearly just the beginning of what they've done.

In the middle of the ring, Derek is trying to make himself as small as possible, tucking his face in so that he won't have to see the flames. His breath comes out in whimpers.

Chris watches. He's trying to just breathe, not to kill everyone in sight. Josh, Mike's brother, waits until Derek has tucked himself entirely into a ball, when he's not on watch for what's coming. It's then, of course, that Josh shoots him.

It's not a wolfsbane bullet. But at the short range, the pain and surprise of it cause Derek to stumble backward. Into the fire. 

Chris loses a little bit of time after that. He's got no backup, nowhere to go. He can't call the Calaveras, they won't support him in this. The only place to take Derek is Beacon Hills, which is, in the best of conditions, a two-day drive. If he's hurt getting Derek out, that lessens their chances even more. He _cannot_ make his move just then, especially not knowing if Derek will help or not, if Derek is _capable_ of helping.

When he slips back into himself, they're killing the fire, but the right portion of Derek's back flank is bare and blistering. The bullet hasn't rejected yet. They try to prod him back to his cage, but he snarls at them, clearly terrified out of his mind. Mike tazes him and then drags him by one of his wounded legs, kicking him back into the cage.

Chris makes his voice even, forces a lightness into it and says, "Well, thanks for the entertainment, but I'd better sleep. We've got business to attend to tomorrow."

Mike throws a lazy salute at him and says, unironically, "Sleep well."

*

Chris is beyond relieved to have an _en suite._ He uses it to empty his stomach of everything he's eaten in the last week, before sitting down on the floor and punching memory 3 on his phone. It's picked up on the second ring with an, "Argent?"

"Sheriff," Chris says, his voice a little hoarse from being sick.

"Noah," is the response.

Chris isn't at his best. He asks, "What?"

"It's my first name. Noah. You should use it. Occasionally people do. Friends."

"You might wanna reserve judgment on that last," Chris says. 

There's a sigh from the other end of the line, but all Noah asks is, "Where are you, and what kind of hole have you managed to fall in?"

"Between Stillwater and the twin cities, Minnesota. I came out to help a family we've got historical ties with get rid of a wendigo nest." Chris opens his mouth to continue, but has to pause to swallow bile.

"Okay," Noah says cautiously.

"Family's been keeping Hale as a plaything."

There's a second of stillness before Noah snaps, "Fuck. I'm guessing you're not talking the fetch-type of playing?"

Chris takes a shaky breath. "No."

"How many of them are there?"

"Three brothers, each with wives, two kids old enough to be training, at least six contractors that I've counted."

"Right," Noah says. "Okay. Let me—I'm coming. With backup, and probably some inroads to the LEOs. For the love of Christ, don't start anything until we get there."

Chris forces himself to say, "They burned him. With fire."

"Argent."

It's Chris's turn to say, "Chris. Fair's fair."

"Chris. Getting yourselves both killed doesn't help him. Don't do anything. We'll be there."

Chris runs a hand over his face. "Thirty-six hours."

"Less, if I can manage."

"Okay." Chris leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. Behind them is fire and fear and undeserved pain. He opens them again. "Okay."

*

The good news is: the wendigos kill one of the Raylan kids who has come on the hunt, and seriously maim one of the brothers. Chris gets out with a bite on his arm that's going to need serious disinfecting and stitches, and bruising that's going to make this whole thing a lot more annoying, but he's on his feet, two Raylans down, and the wendigos are a thing of the past. Oh, Chris is pretty sure a few of them made it out—there were at least twenty—but all in all, it's a decently successful hunt.

The bad news is: once the family's dealt with clean up and disposal, patched everyone up, and settled down, they decide to take out the loss of the kid on Derek. Of course they do. 

Chris takes Noah's point that getting himself killed will not help. But he's pretty sure if he lets them have their way with Derek much longer, there's not going to be anything to rescue. They don't seem terribly concerned about whether he's around to play with another day. He's trapped under a wire net that they run a charge through every few minutes, and in between, when he's stunned and only capable of struggling weakly, they move in, carving their names into him with knives that have been soaked in wolfsbane.

For the last ten minutes, he hasn't even whimpered, just breathed in the high-pitched whine of a being with nothing left. Chris mutters, "Fuck it," under his breath and goes with Plan B.

Plan B involves going inside, ostensibly for a drink. Nobody's really paying attention, and Chris doesn't stay _anywhere_ without learning the layout and certain crucial things, like where the breakers are. Given this, and the fact that they don't expect him to turn on them, it's easy enough to shut down the power and use the disorientation and surprise of the darkness to slide back outside and shoot anything that gets in his way.

It's less easy to cut through the wire and get Derek out. For one thing, the wire cutters on his Leatherman aren't exactly industrial. For another, he's still shooting defensively with his left hand.

Chris curses and drops the Leatherman when one of the Raylans manages to get a shot into Chris's thigh. He forces himself to breathe and pick the damn thing up. He pulls off a shot, snips a wire, pulls off a shot, snips a wire.

Thankfully, whether it's because Derek actually does recognize him, or because Derek's smart enough to know a rescue when he sees one, the minute the hole is large enough, Derek's wriggling through. Once he's out, despite the still-leaking wounds, the burns that haven't healed, and the clear lack of food, Derek's as good a weapon as Chris' gun.

They both get shot before making it through the house and out to Chris' SUV. This one goes into Chris's left shoulder blade and he almost stumbles, falls with the pain, except for the driving imperative to get the two of them out of there, to safety. He's dropped the gun again, but he lets it go. Twenty more feet, maybe, to the car, and then it's just a matter of losing them in a chase. 

Dicks or not, they're not insane enough to shoot at his car on the road. He's pretty sure.

Once he's got them on the road—doing fifty in a residential, and Christ he really fucking hopes they haven't got LEO inroads deep enough to have him taken in, or that if they do, Noah has run some kind of interference—he says, "Call Stilinski."

The Bluetooth, thankfully, hears what it should, and after a moment, the sound of ringing fills the car. Chris is glad. It's another sound, aside from the engine, that drowns out Derek's pained breathing drifting up from the footwell in the back where he's crouched down, hiding. Also, the arm with the bullet still lodged in the shoulder isn't helping with driving, and isn't going to be much use for dialing the phone.

Noah picks up midway through the third ring and says, "We're an hour out—"

"Turn around, get to two hours out, and find us somewhere where you can stitch me up and see what we can do for Derek."

There's a second before Noah asks, "How much stitching are we talking?"

"I'll pull over and do some tourniquet work once I lose them. Once I get the bleeding stopped, I'll be all right to make it there. Derek—I'm not sure," Chris admits.

"Okay, that's a terrible plan. We'll stop where we are. Alan, Stiles, Mason, and Lydia will work out a perimeter, Kira'll create a localized black out on the way in, and Jordan can set fire-traps. I'll call the local police chief, Melissa and Scott will get ready to do the patching. The rest of the pack will take watch."

"The rest of the—who all did you _bring_?"

"It's you and Derek, Chris." Noah's tone is soft, cautious. "You think anyone in the pack was staying where they were and waiting? I had to talk the Yukimuras and Liam's parents down from following, and as soon as we're back, you'd better believe Dr. Geyers's going to be at the house, checking in."

Chris isn't sure how to process that. Instead of trying, he guns it, now on the main streets, and works harder on losing his tail. "See you in about forty."

*

By the time he loses the Raylans—and Chris suspects that's less down to his mostly one-armed driving skills and more to the fact that they can't be bothered to follow him all night just now—he's got about ten minutes to go and it makes no sense to stop. He's woozier than he's strictly comfortable with, seeing as how he's driving, but there's nothing for it. He forces himself to focus by pressing into one of the bullet wounds. It hurts like fuck, and he makes a strangled sound, but it does the job.

Kira's blackout is nothing anyone could mistake for natural. It's like the electricity just _stops_ at one point. Chris makes it a mile past when that happens, and pulls over to the side of the road. He puts the car in park, kills the ignition, and then sits there for a few minutes, forgetting what he needs to do. He's just about to rouse when someone calls, "Chris, don't shoot, we're gonna open the door, okay?"

Scott. That's Scott. His baby's first love. Chris shakes his head, aware he's drifting, but then Scott is there saying, "Okay, that's—" and taking the pain, and Chris almost passes out right there, but he grits his teeth and says, "Derek. Derek's in the—"

"Back, yup, Stiles and my mom are working on him."

"Go…alpha him," Chris slurs, aware that he's not really making a hell of a lot of sense, but c'mon, he knows what he means. Scott should, too.

"Trust me to know what to do with my pack, Chris." The words are gentle. Chris is pretty sure Scott's hands are, too, but they still manage to hurt, even through the pain-drain. Chris swallows back bile. 

Scott's breath catches and he calls, "Mom, have Deaton work with Stiles, I need you over here."

Chris frowns. "Derek needs—"

"Trust me," Scott stresses. 

Scott is barely twenty, and has never grown out of being a total goober. He is the age Allison would have been. He is a child, and not always a very bright one at that. And Chris is not a werewolf.

It doesn't matter. When Scott uses his Alpha Voice, Chris has found he listens all the same.

*

Even while taking precautions, the pack is just waiting at their given posts, on high alert, for the first sign of Chris and Derek. Malia actually catches the scent first, and after that it's only a few minutes before they track them down. Chris is clearly bleeding out in the front seat, and Stiles would be worried about that, he would, except that Scott has told him to help Derek and Derek is—

Derek is skin and bones and not even much fur. Derek is trying to disappear into the door on the opposite side of the car from Stiles and Melissa. Derek is scarred and bleeding and a number of things wolves, especially wolves of Derek's power, shouldn't be.

Stiles is going to kill every person who touched him. He's never had much use for ethics when it comes to the people who are his and fucked if he's going to start caring now. But that's for later. Now Scott is getting into the driver's seat, Chris propped between himself and Melissa. Now Stiles's dad and Deaton are going to lead their caravan of two back to the motel with the cop lights on. Now Stiles has to get into the third row of Chris's SUV and watch to make sure Derek keeps breathing. None of this is going to be as fun as it sounds.

*

Once they're back at the motel, it's time to get Derek out of the damn car, so they can start fixing him. Easier said than done, though, because the only thing Melissa's coaxing is doing is causing Derek to curl up into a tighter ball.

Stiles weighs their options, winces, and clambers over the seat divide to the row where Derek is huddled. He stays on "his side" and says softly, "Hey there, dude."

As Stiles had hoped, the "dude" gets Derek to still. He's at least thinking about something. Stiles says, "Yeah, I know, don't call you dude, you can tell me yourself once we get you patched up. But for that, I need you to get out of the car so Deaton and Melissa and Scott can have a look, okay?"

While Stiles has been talking, Derek very slowly and carefully has been reaching his head a bit out of the tucked position, sniffing at the air. Stiles holds his hand closer, not close enough to make it seem like a threat. "C'mon, big guy. You know us. We're your pack."

Stiles hadn't even realized Scott had traded places with Melissa, but Scott follows this pronouncement up with a, "C'mon, Derek," his voice gentle, but his eyes flashing red.

It does the trick. Derek glances between them a couple of times, and then tries to struggle to his feet. It goes about as well as anyone expects, given that he seems to be three-fourths dead. Stiles says, "Just gonna help, okay, promise I'm not going to hurt you," as he does his best to take some of Derek's weight, tries to slide him toward Scott.

Scott reaches in, picks Derek up like he's a puppy, cradling the wolf in his arms. It would be hilarious, because Derek is nearly twice his size in wolf form. It would be, except Derek's breathing is loud, like whines he can't quite hold back.

Stiles gets out of the car and says, "C'mon, let's…see what there is to see."

*

There's a lot to see. Even Deaton looks mildly concerned, which sort of makes Stiles want to panic, but he forces himself to go through his grounding exercises. The pack needs him breathing. Derek needs him breathing. And fuck knows, Derek hasn't gotten nearly enough of what he needs in life.

Deaton says, "The wolfsbane poisoning he's experiencing is extensive, built up. Can one of you see if Chris recovered any of their wolfsbane stores?"

Stiles goes to search the luggage bed of the SUV. Chris is a professional. Stiles knows he didn't plan this escape without squirreling away every strain of wolfsbane he could find in the house. It takes some looking, but sure enough, there's a case in the middle of the spare tire under a board in the back, eleven different bullets placed neatly inside. He runs it back to the motel room they decided would be the "hospital." 

They'd paid for eight rooms upon arrival, and immediately sound-warded two of them. But it made sense to keep any medical procedures to one room: less evidence to clean up afterward.

Chris is out cold. He's got an IV running into his hand with three bags attached. Melissa is extracting a bullet, with Stiles' dad on hand, in case the sedative and Chris's blood loss aren't enough of a combo to keep him under for it.

Derek is not out: the whites of his eyes are evident. But he's not fighting them. Stiles isn't certain if that's because of Scott's alpha's influence, because Derek recognizes them, some combination of those, or because he's been conditioned that fighting makes it worse. Scott and Deaton are being as gentle as they can. They all know when they start the process of burning the wolfsbane out, though, that there's no gentle to be had.

Stiles sets the case down next to Scott, who pops it open and immediately looks ill. He sucks in a deep breath and says, "Okay."

Scott steps away from the bed and calls Liam on his cell. He's not far, but the whole point of a sound ward is so that even 'wolves, with their superior hearing, won't be able to hear through it. While Stiles waits for Liam, and probably Hayden, to show up and siphon off at least some of the pain alongside Scott, he positions himself on the bed and carefully cradles Derek's head, placing it on his lap.

Derek's breathing is too fast, and Stiles can feel the racing of his pulse. Stiles says, "Liam and Hayden are coming now. You haven't met Hayden, but I think you'll like her in that way you have a soft spot for girls who are in a younger-sister age range and get belligerent just because. Not like anyone you know, or anything."

Derek shifts just the tiniest bit, pressing his nose to the back of Stiles's knee, where the scent will be strongest. Stiles hopes it's bringing up something. "They're going to take some of the pain. It's still going to hurt, we can't help that. There's—they might have used a lot of the types Chris brought on you, and we've got to get it all out."

Stiles wishes there was more information about werewolf healing, about werewolves in general. Most of what there is has been written by hunters, who have gotten it wrong more often than right, and emissaries, who encode their writings so as not to endanger the pack. Stiles has been working on trying to decode three different emissaries' works, but so far he's seen more failure than success.

Still, he's pretty sure that once they get the wolfsbane out of Derek's system, get him to rest some and feed him up, Derek's body will take care of the rest of the physical damage. It'll be on the pack to help with the mental stuff.

Liam and Hayden stumble in, clearly having come running. They close the door behind them, and fit themselves around Derek so that both can have their hands on him. When all six hands from the three 'wolves are positioned, Deaton sets the first packet of powders—he's emptied the bullets and lined up the contents on parchment paper—aflame.

He presses it to the nearest open wound, and even with black lines running up six arms, Derek stiffens, a strangled howl in his throat. Stiles says, "I know, big guy, I know," and talks through the entire hour it takes to go through each of the powders. 

Liam and Hayden slouch over, barely conscious, when it's all done, and Scott's not exactly steady on his feet. Stiles's dad, Deaton, and Melissa help all three of them into the next room, settling them down to sleep.

Chris is wrapped in bandages, but he seems to be sleeping decently restfully. Fuck knows how, but Derek is still conscious, trembling and whining now and then. Deaton returns and Stiles helps him with the last of what can be done, mostly cleaning and bandaging. Stiles says, "Go, I'll stay."

Deaton glances at both patients for a moment, but then nods his head. He knows Stiles will alert them if needed. Stiles crawls into the bed with Derek, careful not to crowd him, just there so that if anything happens, he'll know immediately. He closes his eyes and says, "Sleep, Der. You're safe. Sleep."

*

Chris hasn't woken up slowly since he was five, and his training had begun. This time is no different. The pain hits almost immediately, and he grits his teeth against the moan that wants to make its way free. Chris is pulling in a long breath through his nose—he can tell they've got him on something, enough that he can think through the pain at least—when a bleary-eyed Noah appears over him and says, "I'm gonna give you an ice chip and go get Mel."

Chris takes the ice chip gratefully, and works hard not to fall back asleep while waiting for Noah to return. He mostly manages, and when Melissa comes back and says, "Haven't I told you boys not to play with guns?" he draws up a tired smile for her.

"What's the damage?"

"You should have a doctor looking at this, and you definitely need some physical therapy, but you were pretty lucky, all things being equal." She looks in part relieved and in part exasperated.

Chris nods. "Derek?"

Melissa gestures to the other bed, where the 'wolf is curled up to as small as he can make himself. They’ve made a nest of different clothing items around him and he's sleeping, if not particularly peacefully. Stiles is reading, his back against the headboard, reaching out to comb his hands through Derek's scruff every few moments, when the 'wolf starts to fuss. Melissa says, "He's healing. Physically."

Right now, that's really the best anyone can hope for. "How long was I out?"

"Fourteen hours, give or take," Noah tells him.

From the scant knowledge Chris has of how magic works, that's a damn long time to be holding makeshift wards. "We should get on the road. Derek and I can both sleep in the car." Taking another glance at Melissa and Noah, he asks, "Is there anyone awake enough to drive?"

"Jordan and Lydia can," Stiles says. "Mason and Corey. Malia, probably."

"How many cars do we have?"

"Counting yours, four," Noah tells him. "I can sleep on the first shift and have some coffee and drive second shift, and by that time, Scott and Liam and Hayden will probably be recovered enough to take a shift as well. It'll work."

Chris nods and looks over at Stiles and asks, "Think you can get him in a car without too much trauma?"

Stiles glances down at Derek. "Scott can."

From the way Derek is sleeping with the kid right there, Chris thinks Stiles might be underestimating his own pull, but either way, so long as they get Derek in and settled, it'll work. "Deaton have any idea as to why he's not shifting?"

Melissa frowns. "He thinks it might at first have been a precautionary measure to not let them know who he was. And then possibly a result of wolfsbane build-up in the blood stream."

Since Chris has no doubt that the first thing they did was to burn every last trace of that out of Derek, that means it's probably psychological at this point. He swallows down a mix of frustration and exhaustion and consigns that to being a problem for when they get back to Beacon Hills.

Noah must see something in Chris's posture, because he squeezes Chris's good shoulder carefully and says, "C'mon, let's get everyone home."

*

Malia's driving the car with Stiles and Derek because she smells of pack _and_ family, and they all figure that can't hurt at the moment. Kira's dead to the world in the passenger seat, completely wasted after all the time spent controlling the grid. Malia says she smells like electricity, coffee, and Scott.

About a half hour into the drive Malia asks, "Think I should call Peter?"

Stiles hits his head against the glass of the window gently. Peter's actually been pretty…inoffensive for the last couple of years, since the Wild Hunt. He's not part of the pack, probably will never be, what with having bitten Scott without consent and then trying to have him turned into a Berserker and killed by his own pack, but he's been, well, building bridges with Malia. And seeing as how Peter voluntarily chose to face death by fire—something he'd faced twice before with less-than-optimal results, to say the least—to go back to her, Stiles has chosen to stay out of that particular situation.

And he's Derek's uncle. Stiles runs a hand through Derek's fur and says, "Yeah, probably. Have him call Cora, too."

Stiles himself texts Braeden, since she's likely had more than a few texts to Derek go unanswered. She's probably not freaked out—Derek has been known, from time to time, to forget to charge his phone for weeks on end—but still, she deserves to know what's going on. That said, all he texts is, "taking Derek back to BH. Run in with hunters."

He has no doubt she'll call. He'll give her the whole story then. 

Derek startles awake with a whine and falls off the seat, curling himself up in a footwell not meant to host a two-hundred some pound wolf. Stiles says, "Hey there, hey, you're safe. We're in the car, we're heading to Beacon Hills. The pack is here, and we're going to keep you safe."

Stiles has no idea how long he keeps talking. Long enough that his throat hurts when Derek cautiously touches his nose to Stiles' leg, then stiffly climbs back up onto the seat. "That's it," Stiles says. 

Derek curls up again, but Stiles can tell he's not sleeping. He probably needs more. Stiles isn't going to be the one to push it. Maybe if Derek was in English-speaking form, and they could actually talk, or if Stiles knew Derek really understood anything they're saying. Neither of those is true, however, so Stiles asks Malia, "Hey, can I plug my phone in? I've got a pre-finals playlist I use to calm myself down."

Malia holds out her hand and he passes her the phone.

*

They caravan to the Stilinski house, making it in the early hours of dawn. They've stopped a few times for gas, bathrooms, caffeine, and other necessities, but by-and-large, it's been a straight drive. As Noah had predicted, Liam's dad is there, as well as Hayden's sister.

Peter's sitting on the front porch, which causes Chris to tense up—something he immediately regrets—but Noah says, "Malia called him. For Derek. That's all."

Chris gives Noah a _look_ and Noah nods, sighing, "Yeah, I know, but he is Derek's uncle. And he hasn't done anything homicidal in two years, so."

"That we know of," Chris says.

In the back, Melissa snorts. Noah acknowledges the sentiment with a nod of his head. "I'm not saying don't keep your crosshairs trained that direction."

Chris wishes he didn't get it, but he does. If Chris had any family left who weren't actively out being psychopaths, he'd probably want them to be at home waiting for him, too. Assuming Derek even understands that's what this is.

Noah says, "If you want me to get rid of him—"

Chris shakes his head. "Let's see how Derek reacts. Let that be the deciding factor."

Noah glances over at Chris and watches him for a long moment before nodding. Chris raises an eyebrow, but Noah just says, "All right. Sit tight, I'll let Mel have you if you rip your stitches getting out of the car."

Chris doesn't even unbuckle his seat belt.

*

Stiles doesn't posture with Peter—really with much of anyone—anymore. So he's dead serious when he gives Peter a look that says, "I will cut off your balls and feed them to you if you so much as think about fucking with him."

The look may or may not get the point across, since Peter would never let on if it had. One way or another, though, he sinks to his knees in the grass and just watches as Scott and Malia work Derek carefully out of the car and onto all four feet.

Derek doesn't move from the side of the car. He sniffs a little at the grass, and although he's not looking at either of them directly, Stiles can tell he's tracking where Scott and Malia are in relation to him. Peter growls low in his throat, nothing human about the sound, and Derek tenses. Malia snaps her head around, looking like she's going to lay into Peter, but whatever she sees on his face stops her. 

Running a hand over his face, Stiles goes over to where Derek is trying to use the car as a shield between him and the world. He hunkers down in front of him, far enough that he's not invading Derek's space and says, "Please. Okay? Please come in the house. We're all worried as fuck about you and we can't help you if you won't let us."

Derek moves, but it's just to walk in circles, like he's in some kind of cage Stiles can't see. Stiles closes his eyes for a second and then asks, "He smell like anything that's _not_ fear?"

There are several moments of silence where Malia and Scott are probably discussing things with their faces. Finally, Scott says, "Not much. But hunger. A little."

"Okay, someone go inside and find something he can eat." When he doesn't hear either Scott or Malia move, he glances back and sees that Peter's no longer behind him. After a few minutes, Peter reappears and tosses Stiles a bag of knot rolls. Stiles takes one out and puts it on the ground between himself and Derek. Then he stands and ushers Malia and Scott away, toward the house. He leaves a roll every ten feet or so, the last one right over the threshold of the front door. Then he makes all of them go inside and not watch to see if Derek takes the bait or not.

*

Stiles goes into the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee. He sets up the next batch of cold brew, too, since they're running low and it's his preferred way of drinking coffee in the summer. He logs in to his email and makes sure nothing earth-shaking has happened at the CBI, where he's interning between May and August. Thankfully, it's a twenty-hour a week internship, since the more full-time ones are saved for seniors. It's rare that incoming juniors are even granted one, but Scott's dad's initial recommendation, and his performance at Georgetown, have gotten Stiles further than he had imagined possible.

There's a couple of emails from fellow interns keeping him appraised of certain things, and one from his boss asking if he can shift a few of his hours the following week. Stiles responds in the affirmative and then logs off. 

He goes into the main area and asks, "Dad putting Chris in his room?"

Scott's sacked out on the couch with Kira, and Malia and Peter have disappeared somewhere. Hayden, her sister, and Parrish are sitting side-by-side in front of the couch. Liam, Corey, and Mason are at the breakfast table, talking quietly. Parrish looks up and says, "Yeah. Melissa and Dr. Geyers ran out to get some supplies."

"Lydia colonizing my room?"

Hayden rubs at her eyes. "Yeah, but she said I could have second shower."

"Deaton?" Stiles asks.

"Said he needed something from the clinic," Parrish says. 

Stiles rubs a hand over his neck and debates, but after a second he walks over and looks out one of the front windows. Derek's still where he was when they all came inside.

He says, "I'm gonna go sit on my front lawn and talk to a gigantic black wolf. If the neighbors call Eichen, tell dad he'd better not sign off on the transfer papers."

From the stairs, in a pair of Stiles' boxers and one of his t-shirts, her hair wet, Lydia says, "Too soon, Stilinski."

Stiles musters up a laugh and goes to see what he can do about Derek before Animal Control gets involved.

*

Noah tells Chris, "Normally I'm pretty big on asking before I undress someone else, but I'm gonna cut to the chase: you need a shower, and neither Mel nor I trusts you to stay standing on your own power, so if there's someone you'd prefer help you out with this, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Chris says, "Don’t suppose you have a tub?"

Noah runs a hand through his hair and looks askance. "Uh. It's kinda been awhile since it had much of a scrubbing."

It occurs to Chris that the cleanliness of his bathtub had been a little suspect back when it was just him and Allison. He finds himself laughing. It should be just a chuckle, a recognition of the way life goes sometimes, but his throat catches, the months of loneliness hitting, the stress of the past few days, the pain that's punching right through the painkillers and suddenly his shoulders are shaking, his breaths coming harshly, his face wet.

Noah sits down on the bed next to him and is quiet. It's not until the worst of it has passed that Noah reaches out to rub Chris's back, and even then the touch is light until Chris presses into it. Noah whispers, "We've got you."

Chris shakes his head, but he's not sure what he's denying. Not that they've been there for him—obviously not that, they clearly have. He says, "Sorry, I—"

He's still trying to figure out how to finish that sentence when Noah says, "Really, a shower. Hot water, some sleep. You'll feel more like yourself."

Chris's breath shudders from him. "I'm not sure I know what that means."

"I can't tell you that, obviously," Noah says slowly. "But I can tell you that from the outside, it's a man whose guiding principle is his own moral compass, which always points toward a need to help others."

Chris isn't at all certain that's true. Most of the time he thinks the only guiding principle he has is Allison's voice in the forefront of his mind, _we help those who can't help themselves,_ that the only thing keeping him from saying fuck it, walking out on everyone and everything, is the look he knows he would have seen on her face. "Do you think it matters, why we do things?"

"Sometimes. When they're the wrong things. Sure, intention can matter."

"And when they're the right things?"

Noah shakes his head. "No. Just that we've done it."

"That easy, huh?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but the number of times doing the right thing in my life has been easy can be counted on one hand. With fingers left over."

Chris finds his gaze straying to Noah's fingers. They have the same gun calluses his have. They're sturdier looking, they fit on Noah, who always seems so centered. He brings his eyes up to where Noah is watching him. It feels like ripping his own insides out to say aloud, "It was when she was watching. It was easy."

Noah doesn't look away, which is something. Grief, Chris has learned over the years, is something people will go to all costs to avoid, both in others and themselves. But for all Noah still has Stiles, he's lost Claudia, and several deputies he'd had under his leadership since they were fresh out of the academy. He knows grief and is capable of standing his ground in its wake. After a long moment, he says, "I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, Chris."

Chris waits for the anger that usually blocks his throat, rushes his vision whenever someone says that, like it means something. Only with Noah, it _does_ , and the anger doesn't come, just a terrible, aching exhaustion. Chris says, "I—I'm tired."

"I know. Let me help you. Hold you up. Just until you're a little less tired."

Chris isn't sure that day will come. Can't remember what it feels like not to carry this exhaustion inside. But the offer is genuine, and Chris doesn’t have the strength to turn it down, not just then. He nods. "Okay."

*

Stiles sits on the grass facing Derek. He says, "So, full disclosure, before we got Chris's phone call, I was pissed at you. I'm pretty sure you've got somewhere north of thirty texts from me. I figured you'd done something stupid and very you-like and lost your phone and then hadn't bothered to replace it. Or that you just didn't feel like talking and instead of saying 'hey, I need some me time' were giving us radio silence.

"What I'm trying to get across, here, is that this is the kind of shit that happens when you kind of suck at communicating, and you, friend, don't kind of suck, you suck a lot. You are Olympic-levels of suckage at communicating, in fact, which is how you got kidnapped by Supernatural Duck Dynasty and nobody thought you were actually missing."

Stiles is breathing too fast now. He draws up his knees and presses his forehead to them. He starts counting, _one elephant, two elephant_ and nearly comes out of his skin when something warm and wet touches his knuckles. He almost flails instinctively, but thankfully at the last moment pulls tightly into himself instead and draws in a shaky breath, propping his chin on his knees. 

Derek's on his belly in the grass, his whole body coiled, ready to take flight. Stiles says, "Hey. Thanks. Thanks, that was-- Well, yeah, those still happen. Obviously."

Derek makes a low sound. It's not a growl, nor a whine. It's closer to the latter than the former, though. Stiles swallows down a feeling of helplessness. "I bet they played games with food, huh? They seem like the kind of douchecanoes who would do that."

Derek's ears flick back and forth, but he otherwise stays still and silent. Stiles says quietly, "Sorry I yelled like that. I wasn't—this isn't your fault, okay? Nothing about this is your fault. When I didn't hear from you, I should have checked around, seen if someone else had. Should have—should have tried harder. I'm just mad at myself, okay, big guy?"

Derek paws at the dirt a little. Stiles says, "And I have bad timing, we all know this. Terrible, really. You're totally allowed to kick me next time I'm down. I'll sign a contract. We can seal it in blood or magic or whatever is a thing. Deaton'll know."

Derek _does_ growl at that, even if it's nearly silent, sub-vocal almost. Stiles sighs. "More bad timing, huh? Got it, blood and magic, off the list of stuff we're talking about at the moment." He makes a fist and thuds it rhythmically against his thigh. "Just, listen. Please, just eat something. You can sleep in the back. I'll leave the fence open, you won't even have to jump it. Nothing to pen you in, but something to keep people from staring, right? Some food, some sleep, we can worry about everything else in the morning."

Derek is watching him, not looking down or away for the first time since they found him. Stiles says, "Please, Der. C'mon."

Derek paws at the ground a little more, but then heaves himself to his feet and goes to grab the nearest roll. He swallows it down quickly, darting to the next, and then the next. He's at the stairs to the house when he stops, swinging his head back to look expectantly at Stiles. Stiles stands and goes to him. "Backyard or inside?"

Ever so cautiously, Derek leans into Stiles, not with all his weight, and not without a distinct trembling running through his body. Stiles considers for a moment. He doesn't know what Derek's trying to tell him, only that it's taking everything he has to do it. In the end he promises, "I won't leave. You won't have to be alone."

It must be somewhere in the ballpark of right, because Derek gets closer to the front door and waits. Stiles opens the door.

*

[](https://ibb.co/d9nBXQ)

*

Chris has just gotten himself into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt when he hears something at Noah's door. Noah comes out of the bathroom, where he was hanging the towel back up, and opens it. Derek stands in the threshold for a moment and then pads over to Chris, keeping as wide a berth as he can between himself and Noah.

Derek gently pushes his nose into the back of Chris's knee, and then circles around him a few times before seemingly having gotten what he came for, but being unsure of what to do next. Chris lowers himself to where he's sitting on the bed, which allows him to be closer to Derek's eye level. He holds out his hand and waits for Derek to take the invitation.

Derek's breathing is thready as he does it, but he comes in closer, resting his cheek against Chris's palm. Chris says softly, "You're safe. Everything's fine, okay, Derek?"

Derek pushes his nose near to where Chris took the bullet in his leg, but not close enough or hard enough to actually hurt. Really, it's more like Derek is trying to remind Chris he got shot. Chris buries his hands in Derek's fur and tries not to be bothered by the way his bones are so close to the surface. He says, "I know, but I promise, you're safe." Then, " _We're_ safe."

This seems to be what Derek was waiting for, because he huffs out a breath and nudges Chris into lying down, but at least some of the skittishness is gone. He paces back and forth for a few lengths and then edges his way up to Noah, who is staying still. Noah says, "I'm keeping watch, Derek."

Derek's tail lashes fiercely for a second. Then he whines a little and leaves, presumably heading back downstairs. Chris rubs a hand over his face and stares at the ceiling. "That kid needs so much therapy."

Noah laughs, short and loud. "I feel like we should probably just invest in a pack counselor at this point. Expense it out."

"Ah, yes, the famous 'supernatural needs' category of the tax return."

"I'm thinking of lobbying for one for the municipality. Maybe the county. Bet a lot of people would get right on that."

Chris laughs again, and if it's not free of bitterness, it's easier than his earlier laugh, with real humor in it. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet you're right."

*

Stiles watches as Derek returns from his dad's bedroom and lopes through each and every corner of the house, sniffing and pawing and generally learning the lay of the land. The fur on the back of his neck sticks straight up and his ears are pricked the entire time, but at least it seems like he's taking a little bit of initiative.

Almost as an afterthought, Stiles realizes he's hungry, and that he's pretty sure the last time any of them ate a substantial meal was before his dad got Chris's call. He pulls out his phone and puts in an order for enough pizza to feed a small European nation, plus soda and breadsticks. He goes into the kitchen to rummage up plates and isn't surprised to hear Derek padding in behind him. 

Stiles grabs a bowl from the cabinet and fills it with water, putting it on the floor. Derek's got to be thirsty. When he doesn't hear the sounds of him lapping up the water, Stiles looks over and Derek's seated, watching the bowl, considering it, but not going within range of it.

Every line in Derek's body is telling Stiles that he expects the bowl to be a trick. Stiles turns back to the counter and presses his palms down into it, forcing himself to breathe. Rage and panic are vying for his attention, and Stiles is interested in giving way to neither. He can tell from the quiet noise Derek makes that the wolf can smell Stiles's distress.

Stiles turns around, sits down on the ground pretzel style, and says, "Okay. So. I'm not sure how to get you to believe that drinking is going to be okay, but you need to do it. Which puts us at a bit of an impasse, yeah?"

Derek doesn't move or respond at all. Stiles sighs. "This would be a fuck of a lot easier if we had any other full-shift wolves on hand."

He's actively considering putting his own face in the damned bowl and showing Derek what to do when Malia trots in on four legs. She looks between the two of them, then goes and laps up a few sips. Then she gets in Derek's space and _herds_ him to the water. It still takes Derek a moment, but once he starts drinking she all-but sits on him to keep him there. She's easily seventy pounds smaller than him, even in his emaciated state. He doesn't seem to realize it.

He finishes the bowl and backs off. Stiles fills it back up and sets it down again.

It takes four bowls before Derek cautiously lifts his head without having licked the bowl bone-dry. Malia huffs out an approving noise, directs him toward the couch, where she curls up with him and makes it clear by way of determinedly closing her eyes that it's time to sleep.

Derek waffles, but Stiles watches, and soon enough, his eyes drift closed. Stiles goes and opens the door so the pizza guy won't ring the doorbell and wake them up.

*

Chris wakes up to the small sliver of sunlight allowed through the blinds floating lazily toward him. Melissa's asleep facing him on the bed. It's a little unnerving that he missed her coming in, Noah going out, and her joining him in the bed, but he's not sure it's terribly surprising. His arm and leg ache enough for the pain to be nauseating.

She looks exhausted, and he doesn't want to risk waking her. She'll go into nurse-mode the minute her brain clicks on. He's seen it happen before.

Instead he lets himself drift in and out of a space that's not entirely sleep, but it's not wakefulness, either. He comes to again when Melissa says, "Wake up, sleepy head."

He must wince or do something, because the second his eyes are on her she says, "Breakfast and meds."

She's careful about getting out of the bed, but Chris still makes himself breathe through his nose to quiet the pain of being jostled. He's getting old. Time was when he would have gone to get the food and meds for himself with considerably more damage done.

There's a knock on the frame of the door and Chris looks over to see Todd Geyers standing there. Chris says, "Doctor."

"Mel said you were up. Thought it might be a good time to let me look at the wounds. I know she's unusually well versed in trauma treatment even for an ER nurse, but I figure it can't hurt to have an extra set of eyes."

"They're healing well," Chris says, because painful or not, he knows they are. He's all too familiar with the process of healing. He slowly sits himself up, though, and when the doctor makes his way into the room, Chris doesn't argue. Like Noah, Liam's parents have become pack, or at least pack adjacent, and without understanding how it happened, Chris has fallen under that label as well. As a doctor, Geyers has probably been going crazy having to wait to see with his own eyes that everything is fine.

The first thing Geyers does is give Chris a small injection of Percodan. Chris says, "Thanks," and tries not to fall asleep when the wave of relief hits. 

Geyers is poking around a bit, but not invasively. After a few minutes he nods. "Looking good. I'll wanna see you again in a few days, but assuming you keep yourself properly medicated, the antibiotics hold, and you eat and rest, should heal cleanly."

Chris says, "I'll see what I can do," because those are the kind of promises he's not comfortable making.

Geyers laughs softly. "Yeah. Think Derek'll let me get anywhere near him?"

"If you get Scott or Stiles to help. Or both."

"Off to try and not get eaten, then."

Chris watches him go. His eyes are getting heavy when Noah comes back through the door carrying a mug of coffee, Melissa behind him with a plate of eggs and toast. Chris says, "Sight for sore eyes," and doesn't elaborate on whether he's talking about the food and caffeine, or the people bringing them.

*

Once Stiles has helped Deaton ward the house six ways from Sunday, some of the pack disperses. Lydia goes to spend some time with her mom, so Jordan heads back to his place. Dr. Geyers drags Liam home, which allows Valerie to do the same with Hayden. Once those two are gone, Mason and Corey peel off. 

Stiles crashes in the aftermath of expending the necessary energy from the wards. If the light coming in the windows is any indication, it's late afternoon when he swims back up to consciousness, which means he slept at least four hours. There's a wolf on his legs.

Derek is _heavy_ , but Stiles is loathe to move. Derek hasn't been particularly tactile as of yet, and this is the first sign that he might be recognizing them as pack, or, at the very least, safe. Stiles had spoken to Deaton while they were placing the wards about Derek not having shifted.

Deaton had pursed his lips. "I won't say it's not mildly worrisome, but Hunters don't usually mix with anyone who would be able to do that kind of binding magic, and I haven't sensed anything on him. Something that strong, it's likely I would have felt it immediately upon being in a room with him."

"So he's just…not ready to? Feeling safer in that form?"

Deaton had stilled for a moment. "That, or—"

After a moment, Stiles had prompted, "Or?"

"Or they trained him through torture to stay in that form, and he has mental barriers against changing back."

Stiles had swallowed down bile and said, "Oh."

It's not that Stiles minds Derek's wolf form, but it makes it hard to communicate or help him deal with the trauma. If allowing Derek to colonize Stiles' legs is a step toward getting both sides of the werewolf back, Stiles will sit here until he's in danger of peeing himself. 

In the end he doesn't have to. Derek notices Stiles has woken and stands. He stands as if uncertain of where he is for a second, but then sniffs his way along Stiles, clearly checking for something. Whatever it is, he seems okay with what he finds, because he settles down again, this time next to Stiles. Stiles says, "Hey there. You hungry?"

Derek's ears flick in interest, but there's unquestionably a wariness to the gesture that Stiles knows wasn't there before. He quashes his anger, not wanting Derek to pick up on it and read it incorrectly. Gently, he skritches at Derek's head. The scarring is completely gone now, but there's no help for the fact that Derek is grossly underweight. 

Derek's eyes flutter closed under Stiles' ministrations, and Stiles just keeps at it. Malnourished or no, a snack can wait.

*

By the second day they're back, Chris can make it to the bathroom, and even to the kitchen and back to the bed, without feeling like he might pass out halfway through the epic journey. He knows Noah and Melissa have been trying to work their shifts so that Chris is never in the house without another adult, which he's not unappreciative of, but seeing as how he can take care of himself at this point, it's probably overkill. He ushers them both out of the house and moves to the couch, where he can keep an eye on things.

Stiles goes back to his internship on the third day, and Scott to working day-hours at the animal clinic. Derek spends the time they're both out of the house slinking around, his tail lashing low and constant. Chris has seen Peter here and there, which does not make him comfortable. It does seem to get Derek to calm a bit, though, so Chris is keeping quiet on the matter, at least for the moment.

Stiles comes back at around 3:30, clearly having stopped off at the grocery store on the way. He sets the bags down in the kitchen and kneels to where Derek is butting at his knees. He scratches behind Derek's ear and says, "Still four-legging it, huh?"

Chris says, "I think this might be…well, not unprecedented."

Stiles stands and looks over at him. "Keep talking."

Chris walks over to the coffee machine and peels the lid off the Maxwell House can next to it. Using his left arm is still pretty painful, but the last thing he wants is for it to stiffen. As he's tipping tablespoons of grounds into a filter he says, "A lot of what hunters have recorded about 'wolves is biased, obviously. There's a whole bunch of lore about full shifters going feral. I'm thinking, though, that they weren't feral."

"They were choosing to stay in shift to handle trauma," Stiles says.

Chris nods, putting the filter in the basket. "Maybe. Probably."

"I'm not entirely sure where that gets us," Stiles admits. "Humans have processes for trauma, whether they work or not. Animals…if they do, scientists have yet to figure out what they are."

"I was thinking more along the lines of contacting Satomi, or Cora's pack. Seeing if what is lore for hunters has some actual answers among established packs."

Stiles stills in the middle of taking a head of lettuce out of the grocery bag. "Yeah, that's—why hadn't I thought about that?"

Chris leans against the counter and takes Stiles in. "When's the last time you slept for more than a few hours at a time?"

Stiles sets the lettuce on the counter and resumes his unpacking. "Sleep and I have a fragile relationship at the best of times."

Chris glances over at Derek, who's curled in a ball on the floor, his tail hiding his face. "I get it."

Stiles flattens both his hands against the counter. "I'll—I'll take something. Lemme get dinner made and make sure dad eats and get Derek to eat and I'll take something. You guys need me sharp, I know."

"Your dad needs you healthy," Chris says quietly. It's not untrue that Stiles at his best is probably necessary if they're going to unwind this clusterfuck. Only, at the moment, that seems less important than the way Noah's jaw tightens when he sees the bruises around his son's eyes. "He needs you."

Stiles looks at Chris, holding his gaze for a long moment in which Chris is mildly terrified that they are going to have to Talk About Things. Then Stiles says, "Yeah, okay. In the meantime, it's Taco Tuesday."

Chris offers, "Want me to brown the meat?"

Stiles tosses him a bottle of chili powder.

*

Scott sends Mason and Corey to Satomi. The pack is only a couple of hours away and it's not exactly a secret that the two of them have a friends-with-benefits situation going on with Brett, which makes inter-pack relations a little easier. He sends Malia down to Cora. Chris watches as Scott literally bites his tongue when Peter gets in the car with her.

Scott has Lydia call Jackson. The two of them might not be friends, but they're at least on speaking terms, and the British pack Jackson eventually joined has an emissary who was old when Chris first began training. Chris is pretty certain Scott's considering putting in a call to Ethan, who, last Chris checked, is running with some type of omega misfits pack in Manitoba. Before they go down that road, Chris offers, "Want me to call Isaac? I have no idea if their pack has any full shifters, but it's one of the oldest on record in France, so chances are decent."

Scott nods. "Please. And, uh. Tell him it wouldn't kill him to visit. Derek'd probably like that."

Chris manages to repress the automatic snort he has in response to that. Derek probably _would_ like it, but not half so much as Scott. That said, Scott's been quiet on the topic of Melissa spending her nights in bed with Chris and Noah, and there's no good reason to start a war that Chris will unquestionably lose. "I'll let him know."

Isaac picks up on the second ring and says, "Chris. Everything all right?"

Chris winces. He should probably call every once in a while when things aren't going to shit. "Well. The world's not ending."

"Sounds like a banner day for Beacon Hills."

Chris huffs something close to a laugh. "You're not entirely wrong."

"Still, I figure you're not just calling to chat."

Chris rolls his shoulder, feeling it tighten up. It hurts enough to cause a flash of dizziness, which he ignores. "No, sorry. You know if your pack's got any full shifters?"

"Not currently, but the previous alpha definitely was at the time of her death."

The current alpha is technically her surviving mate, but Chris knows both from Isaac and from looking into the pack before he guided Isaac to them that the real power lies in their youngest child, Elle, the only one of the five children who has shown any interest in taking over a leadership role when her father passes. "None of the kids?"

"Not so far, but word is their mother couldn't until her forties, and only Jean is over forty. Why?"

"Short version, Derek's maybe stuck."

There's silence for a moment, then Isaac asks. "Uh, maybe?"

"Well, he might just not _want_ to shift back." Chris actually thinks Derek would make himself, even if only for a few minutes, to let them all know he was okay, if he could. For all his loner tendencies, Derek is defined by his compulsion to put pack first. He's dropped by each of the kids at college at least twice a year, regularly answers his phone at three in the morning when Noah's got a case that's a problem, and has more than once driven fifteen to twenty hours in a go when one of them needed him. Chris is pretty sure the only way it managed to go unnoticed that he wasn't responding to phone calls is that sometimes, when there wasn't an emergency happening, the rest of the pack tried to give him some space. Chris isn't even sure Derek particularly likes that, he's just not enough of a self-advocator to point out that it bothers him.

Another conversation they should probably all have once Derek is back in English-speaking form.

"Oookay. So, like, you're looking for reasons a wolf could get stuck in a full shift?"

"And how that wolf's pack might…unstick them." Chris has to stop hanging out with Millenials.

"I'll see if anyone here knows anything."

"Thanks," Chris says. "And Isaac?"

"Yup?"

"Scott says to visit."

"Oh. Uh. He does?"

Jesus. "Yeah. Which I'd like. And I bet Derek'd like it, too."

"Oh," Isaac says again. "Maybe for Christmas."

Chris feels something in his chest loosen. "That'd be great."

*

Malia and Peter return two days later with Cora, but no viable information. Cora sits face to face with Derek and says softly, "No full shifters in living history, buttface. Which is no excuse for you to laze around like a dog."

Derek noses at her stomach, makes a few sad sounds, and does not miraculously shift back to being human.

Thankfully, Satomi sends Mason and Corey back with some decent lore, and Lydia gets her hands on a treasure trove of full-shifting information by way of Jackson's emissary. Stiles splits his time between his internship, making sure his dad is eating something green now and then, trying to figure out how to have The Talk About Chris with said dad, and putting his head together with Lydia on what the hell all this info means and how it's useful to them.

He can generally do the last three while Derek is sitting on him, which is a plus, since that happens whenever he steps foot in the house. It's around three in the morning, and Stiles has read the same page at least twice, but probably more like five times, when Malia appears from out of fucking nowhere and asks, "When was the last time you slept?"

Stiles flails in shock, which scares the shit out of Derek, perturbs Lydia, and brings a look of confusion to Malia's face. Stiles says, "Seriously, how many times have we talked about sneaking up on people?"

"She's been in the room for twenty minutes," Lydia says, and now she's looking like _she's_ going to investigate the issue of Stiles' sleep patterns. Fuck.

Stiles tries to head this off by stating, "There are bigger things at play here than my REM cycles."

Malia narrows her eyes. Lydia purses her lips. Derek huffs. Stiles isn't sure which one of these events tells him that he's lost, but one way or another, he has. He rubs a hand over his face. "I'll go grab a few hours, but then I want to finish this chapter before I have to get into work. There's some stuff on pack attachment and shifting that I think might actually prove useful."

Lydia pulls the book he was working with over to her and scans the page. "Yes, I see what you're seeing."

"So, just—"

"It'll be here in the morning," she says. "For that matter, it'll be here this weekend. Go to sleep."

Stiles is about to make an argument about not having any idea what extended time in shift does to the mind of a shifter, but Derek's got Stiles's hand in his mouth and is tugging him toward the stairs, and well. Yeah, okay, a few days probably isn't going to make that much of a difference one way or another.

He lets himself be pulled.

*

Stiles wakes up to sun streaming into his windows and burgeoning panic that is just barely arrested by the note in his dad's handwriting that says, "Scott turned your alarm off. I told your boss you have the flu. They don't expect you back for a couple of days."

Derek shifts just enough to sniff at him a few times, but Stiles must pass whatever smell-test he's conducting, since he lopes off the bed and to the door. Stiles rubs a hand over his face, trying to wake himself up a bit more. He rolls his neck and gets to his feet. At least the unexpected days of leave give him more time to dig into Satomi's resources, figure out what there is to figure out. Assuming there is anything to figure out.

He gets downstairs where someone has already let Derek outside. He still doesn't like going out in the front, but the back, where the fence keeps others away, is where he likes to spend his days right now. Stiles counts the willingness to wander without one of them at his side as progress.

Nobody much is around, everyone presumably at work or, in Cora's case, who the hell knows. Stiles's dad is sitting at the kitchen table, though, looking through case files. Stiles pours himself some coffee and says, "Late shift tonight?"

His dad nods. "Back to normal, really."

Stiles hesitates for a moment before deciding, fuck it. "Where's Chris?"

His dad looks over at him. "Not entirely sure. He said he needed to run some errands."

"He staying here?"

"Mel's fine with—"

"Dad," Stiles says.

"I didn't ask if he wanted to. Didn't plan on asking without talking to you about it first."

Stiles takes a seat at the table with his dad. He draws his fingers over the lines in the wood. They've had the table forever. It needs sanding and restaining, but Stiles sort of likes the way there are water rings and you can actually feel the grooves. It's been lived on, the same way their entire house has been lived in. Quietly, he asks, "Do you want him to?"

His dad smiles a little, just a turn up at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose I don't really care if he's here or at Mel's, so long as the three of us—I mean—"

"Yup," Stiles says, because full sentences are overrated. "That's—I mean, in that case, maybe split custody, right?"

His dad rolls his eyes. "Well done on making it creepy, kid."

Stiles flashes a grin, but then sobers. "The thing is, I—I know it's not like, like with mom. Not yet, maybe not ever, I don't know." He thinks probably at some point, there will be that kind of connection between the three of them. He thinks it's already there with his dad and Melissa, even if it looks wholly different than it did between his parents. 

Stiles has figured out that love, particularly the deep, forever-and-always kind, never looks the same between two (or more) people. His mom and his dad were high school sweethearts that grew into something richer. His dad and Melissa have been each other's…support structure, he supposes, for most of their adult lives. Their relationship has developed through the softening of each other's broken edges until they began to fit together. 

Chris, well. Stiles is pretty sure Chris is more broken than any of them, with the possible exception of Derek. Stiles glances out the slider to where Derek is casing the backyard, pacing the fence, clearly guarding the territory. It might just be a Stilinski thing, being drawn to what's fractured, but still standing. He's not sure how anyone manages not to be, though.

"I know that," Stiles continues. "But it's real. We're neither of us much for half measures."

His father grimaces in recognition of the statement, possibly in chagrin at having passed the trait on. Stiles grips his mug and says, "I just want you to be—"

He blinks down at the table and thinks "safe," thinks, "here," thinks a million selfish things, like, "mine." He looks up and starts over again. "I just want you to be happy."

"Okay," his dad says softly. "But—you make me happy."

Stiles drinks the last of his coffee to wash down the way the simple statement makes his throat hurt. He stands, squeezes his dad's shoulder and says, "I'm gonna sleep some more and then get my head back in the werewolf-mythology game."

His dad reaches up with a hand and squeezes Stiles' wrist for a moment before letting go. Stiles nods and heads toward the stairs.

*

As soon as he has a decent range of motion back in his shoulder and leg, Chris drives himself to one of his storage units and spends most of the day shoring up contacts in the Hunter world. Thankfully, it seems he's not the only one who's had run-ins of one sort or another with the Raylan clan, which makes things easier than he was expecting. And explains the lack of immediate retribution. He does a quick inventory before sitting down to consider what his next move is.

He's been sitting staring at his hands blankly for who knows how long when he hears a noise and instinctively points his gun in the direction from which it came. Scott appears around the corner and holds his hands up. "Sorry, I should have called out."

Chris sets the gun down. "Did you track me here?"

Scott shrugs. "Kinda? I went to Stiles' place to talk to you at noon and you weren't there, so." He taps the side of his nose.

"Did you need something?" Chris asks.

Scott rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "I need to know what your intentions are with my mom and Stiles's dad."

Chris's brain skips a beat. Scott grimaces. "Not as a pack thing, or—" He swallows. "It's like, she's my _mom_ , Chris. And he's maybe not my dad, but you'd have a hard time knowing it."

Chris nods, he knows all this. He ignores the ache in his chest where he doesn't fulfill that role for anyone anymore. Only Scott starts talking again. "The problem is, you're—you're kinda my not-dad, too."

Scott frowns at the floor. Chris bites the inside of his cheek. Quietly, he asks, "What do you want, Scott?"

"For you to stay," Scott says without hesitation. "For you to let us be family to you. Not…not a substitute, just different."

Maybe if it weren't Scott saying this, Chris would be angry. He's not sure he has enough energy for anger these days. But Scott carries Allison's death with him. Chris can see it, like an aura, something that defines Scott as surely as the red flare of his wolf's eyes. "And if it doesn't work?"

Scott smiles. "It'll work."

"Scott—"

"Chris. It'll work."

The most annoying thing about Scott is that the force of his belief is often a power strong enough to manifest itself. It shouldn't be possible, but then, a lot of things about Scott shouldn't be possible. "Guess I should see about finding an apartment."

Scott tilts his head. "Should you?"

Chris's shoulder and leg are aching fiercely and he needs to figure out his employment situation if he's going to stay. "It'll hold."

*

Melissa's in the Stilinski house when Chris gets there, clearly just off her shift. He says, "Hungry?"

She smiles. "I never turn down food someone else is planning to make for me."

Chris laughs softly, and goes into the kitchen to see what he has to work with. Stiles keeps it stocked pretty well. He glances out the window over the sink and finds Derek where he expects to see him, curled up in the yard. Stiles is there as well, lying in the grass on his back, Derek's head resting on his thigh. Chris washes his hands and asks, "Noah getting back soon, or is he on a late shift?"

"Eight, so, not too bad," she says.

He takes out a package of chicken thighs and starts to clean them. Chris's cooking style is a weird mix of rough-and-ready, can-be-made-over-a-campfire survival skills and the time intensive, detail oriented French culinary traditions that his maternal grandfather taught him. Most of his dishes are light on ingredients, but have a complexity of flavor that belies the surface simplicity. "I was thinking about asking him if he thinks there's any market for consulting in law enforcement within the larger county."

She sits at the table. "Just the county?"

"Yeah, you know, keep business within a fifty mile radius."

"Chris," she says softly. 

He puts the chicken on some paper towel and begins patting it dry. "I thought I'd try and stay. If—If I'm correct that, ah—"

"You're correct."

He thinks of all the things he appreciates about Melissa, perhaps at the top is that though she will push you to your absolute limits, she will only do so when it's needed, and no further than those limits allow. He takes a deep breath and says, "Thank you for coming to get me. Us."

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow and says, "It really is a good thing you're so damn hot."

*

All things being equal, Stiles figures it's a good thing that magic has parameters, limits. Not just because this cuts down on the "absolute power corrupts absolutely" issue with magic users, but because if he'd discovered he actually could have saved his mom's life eight years after the fact, he probably would have completely and totally lost his shit.

Even knowing that, though, it's annoying as fuck when magic can't fix things that Stiles would really like to fix. Like say, for instance, Derek.

The histories give Stiles, Lydia, and Deaton a few ideas. None of them actually pan out, however. 

July is rolling toward a close and Stiles is starting to consider whether he's going to have to transfer schools. He can't leave Derek like this. The mere thought causes his lungs to go tight. They have a routine. They go for a run in the mornings before Stiles leaves for work, because Derek will actually leave the safety of the house and yard if Stiles is by his side. Derek's always at the door to greet Stiles when he gets back in the early afternoon, like he's been waiting. They spend the afternoons alternating between Stiles reading, making food, and generally getting things done around the house while Derek follows him, getting in the way more often than not. He's a little bigger than the ideal pet for the Stilinski house.

Derek sleeps with him, too. He's too damn hot by half, but there's no question that they keep each other's nightmares at bay. Stiles isn't stupid enough to imagine his have suddenly just abated at the exact same time as sleeping with Derek became a regular thing.

Fifteen year old Stiles would have been terrified by the continued presence of the wolf. Seventeen year old Stiles would have been sexually-frustrated knowing what was underneath the fur, and frustrated at Derek for making this his problem. 

Twenty year old Stiles is just relieved Derek is there, in any way he can be. If they can't get two-legged Derek back, then Stiles will stick by this one. If they can…Stiles will stack the C4 right under that rickety bridge when they come to it. Probably while they're crossing it, if his and Derek's history is anything to go by.

What he's not doing is going to live half way across the country from him. Nor is he dragging Derek from the safety of the pack. Neither of those are options, which leaves figuring out where to transfer that will do the least damage to his career trajectory. It's not as if he hadn't planned on coming back to California in the long-term. DC's a fun place as a college kid, sure, but it doesn't have his dad or Scott, so it's not somewhere he's ever going to call home.

Stiles spends an evening reading up on transfer procedures and making a list of things he'll need to do, professors he'll need to contact, facts about programs he needs to double check. It's almost predictable that the body in his bed with him the next morning is considerably less furry than the one he's gotten used to. Stiles blinks a few times at Derek, who's still sleeping. He's got so much facial hair it's almost hard to see that he's two steps beyond gaunt, but Stiles can see. It makes sense. The wolf had still been gaining weight. Wolves heal, but that doesn't mean they just magically regain mass. 

Stiles runs a hand over his face and mutters, "Right, then." More loudly, he says, "Derek."

Derek startles awake, sniffing at the air. He must notice the difference in the acuteness of his senses, because he looks down at himself and, after a second, stops breathing.

*

Stiles knows panic attacks when he sees them. He would know them in any guise or costume. This one's a pretty basic, run of the mill, garden variety freak out. And when he's not in the heat of one, he knows how to handle them as well.

He hauls Derek into a sitting position, legs over the side of the bed, pushes his head between his knees and presses his hand into the small of Derek's back. Stiles keeps his voice just loud enough to hear above Derek gasping for breath. "You're in my room at my house. You've been at my house for over a month. You were pissed at me when I finally changed the sheets last week, because your wolf is kinda into gross smells. My dad and Chris and Mel are all down stairs. Scott might be too, or he might be at the clinic rescuing baby lambs, or whatever."

He keeps talking, rambling about his job and what he should make for dinner that night and anything that comes to mind until Derek's breaths become shaky, but steady. At that point he steps back to give Derek some space, which lasts all of a second, because Derek's breathing almost immediately picks up.

"Okay," Stiles says, and kneels in front of Derek. Derek's still hiding his face, so Stiles puts a hand to his cheek to get him to look up.

Predictably, the first thing Derek says is, "Sorry."

Stiles doesn't think pointing out the inappropriateness of that response is going to help anyone, so he says, "You want a hot shower? Maybe some coffee?"

The shakes from the attack are pretty pronounced now. Derek says, "Can we just—I." His fingers find purchase on Stiles' shoulders and he squeezes, although not hard enough to injure.

Stiles says, "I'm not going anywhere."

Derek nods, but he doesn't move. So Stiles doesn't either. His word is his bond, and all that.

*

It takes over an hour, but Stiles manages to get Derek standing and under a stream of hot water. He has to sit on the toilet with the curtain open enough that he's clearly visible to Derek, but he does it. He keeps up a steady stream of inane one-sided conversation even as he sends a text to pack and pack-adjacent persons in the know. "Derek back. Prolly a good idea for him to see people. No crowding tho."

It's less than twenty minutes before Scott is at the door. Stiles has _just_ gotten Derek in sweats and seated at the kitchen table. Stiles pokes his head out from the kitchen and says, "Aren't you supposed to be at the clinic?"

"Deaton and I both thought this might be slightly more important," Scott says. "How's he doing?"

Stiles shrugs. "He's breathing on his own, showered, and dressed. Baby steps."

It's the middle of summer, but Derek's swathed in Noah's winter sweats and huddled in on himself. Scott doesn't even blink, just says enthusiastically, "Hey. It's good to see you. Uh, this you."

Derek opens his mouth a couple of times before tensing up even further and staring angrily at the kitchen table. Scott moves toward him, making his intent clear, more than slow enough for Derek to move away, should he so choose. Instead, the moment Scott is close enough, Derek tilts his head to the side and opens his body language just enough for it to be clear that he wants Scott in his space. Scott, who's still learning, really, when it comes to behaviors that born wolves just _know_ , steps into that space and presses a hand to the side of Derek's neck, scenting him. Derek unfurls the tiniest bit, sighing inaudibly.

Scott says, "Okay. You just. You try and tell me what you need, okay, Derek?"

Derek makes a sound in the back of his throat. Scott keeps up a steady stroking of his hand over Derek's neck. Stiles watches until Derek looks over at him, eyes wide and terrified and clearly asking for whatever Stiles is willing to give. It's been a damn long time since Stiles even kidded himself he wouldn't give Derek whatever he asks for, and quite a bit that he doesn’t.

Stiles moves and wraps himself over Derek, clinging to his side. Derek takes several breaths and says, "Don't—Stiles, don't—"

Stiles starts to move back, but Derek makes a panicked noise, so Stiles aborts, and keeps clinging. Derek tries again. "You. You go back. To college."

Stiles blinks. "Are you seriously telling me that you overcame an emotional trauma block to shifting back to your human form because you were worried about me transferring schools?"

Derek just makes another small noise. Scott laughs. "Dude, that was not a no."

Stiles sighs. "Jesus Christ, Der." Then, "We'll talk about it when you can form full sentences."

And, well, if that's a little manipulative, Stiles has never pretended to be the most ethical person on the planet, or even in the pack. Derek grumbles a little. Stiles says, "That's the spirit. Hey, want some French toast made with cinnamon bread?"

Derek takes a few minutes to deliberate on that one, but in the end, he lets go of Stiles. He doesn't look happy about it. Then again, that might just be his face.

*

After the text regarding Derek, Chris, Noah, and Melissa discuss whether maybe they should stay at her place that night, give the pack some space, but in the end, just the idea is clearly making all of them uncomfortable. Chris thinks about how tight the space at the Stilinski house is becoming. He thinks about the life insurance money from Victoria, the college fund that will never send anyone to college, all of the money he's let sit in bank accounts for years because the thought of touching it made him sick to his stomach. He thinks about the way Allison loved the pack.

Then he lets himself off the hook, at least for right then, and just goes back to Noah's place. Derek is curled up into the furthest corner of the couch, Stiles basically in front of him, a barrier between Derek and the world. Derek peers around Stiles and gives Chris what would probably be a smile on anybody else. On Derek it's more like a pained grimace with a hint of teeth, but somewhere along the way, Chris has learned to read the kid's face.

He nods and says, "Glad to have you in verbal form again."

Stiles snorts. "Not that he's making much use of that."

Derek butts his head into Stiles's shoulder. Stiles reaches back and skritches at Derek's hair. Chris asks, "Want me to handle dinner?"

"With vegetables," Stiles says. He looks straight at Chris and says, with all the depth of a child who has taken care of his remaining parent for over a decade: "You're on probation."

Chris just walks off. All evidence to the contrary, he's careful with the things he considers his. Now more so than ever. Malia's at the kitchen table, Lydia tutoring her in something. Malia is perpetually in summer school. Lydia nods at him. Malia grunts a little.

Chris hides a smile and roots through the freezer and fridge, finding everything he needs for shrimp and veggie kabobs. After a few minutes, Kira pokes her head in the kitchen and asks, "Need help chopping?"

"Didn't hear you come in," Chris says, sliding a cutting board and a few onions in her direction.

"I think Liam might've left the door open," she tells him.

Chris heard Liam come in. He'd have to have been deaf not to. Liam has all the grace of a giraffe-elephant hybrid coming out of the womb. Watching the kid turn into some kind of lacrosse savant was the weirdest experience. 

Melissa gets home from her shift as the two of them are assembling the skewers. She pulls a bottle of wine from the cabinet above the stove that nobody ever uses and pours some into a mug. Chris lets himself laugh at that, and takes a sip when she offers it to him. He hands it back to her. She brushes her lips over his. "Gonna go wash the hospital off. Be back in a bit."

Noah arrives not much later. Chris is manning the grill by that time, sweating with the heat of the early evening sun and the flames from the grill. Noah brings him a glass of water and tells him, "Don't let my kid draft you into servitude."

"I've been known to hold my own, once or twice," Chris says.

Noah grins. "It's nice that you think that matters with Stiles."

Chris acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. "Melissa came home about twenty minutes ago. I think she's still upstairs."

"Derek say anything to you?"

"No," Chris shakes his head. "But he—he made an effort of sorts."

Noah breathes out of his nose, a long exhalation. "Stiles is thinking about staying here, in the fall."

Chris spends several moments trying to read Noah's tone before giving up. "Is that what you want?"

Noah makes a noise that's hard to decipher. "No. I mean. I miss him. It's—it's harder than maybe it should be, letting him go off to DC. But it's also…he should do that. It's important for him to do that. So, no."

Chris methodically turns over the skewers. "Then we'll have to make it clear that Derek is going to be fine with us, safely here every time Stiles gets back."

There's a pause of sorts, a stillness Chris can't define, and then Noah's hands are on his hips, turning him, and the kiss is no brushing of lips, it's an assault, but one Chris finds grounding. He pulls away only through sheer willpower. "I'm not burning dinner and listening to your kid laugh like we're some kind of sex-crazed maniacs."

Noah appears to consider this for a second or so. "Yeah, okay. Raincheck."

He walks back into the house, then, and Chris allows himself a quiet, "Fuck."

*

Derek gets progressively more fidgety as the pack breaks up for the evening. Stiles is worried that whatever's freaking Derek out will end in him retreating into his wolf-shaped shell, so he lets himself feel the depth of his own exhaustion, and calls bed time early. Only, Derek looks around when Stiles says, "I'm gonna hit the sack," like he doesn't know where to go.

 _Oh,_ Stiles thinks. "What, now that you're bipedal you're too good to snuggle with the pack human?"

Derek from before would have rolled his eyes, maybe shoved Stiles a bit. This Derek just allows some of the tension to bleed from his shoulders. Stiles takes the stairs a couple at a time. He brushes his teeth, changes into his pajamas, and clambers atop Derek, who's curled himself practically into the corner of the bed, as if to take up as little room as possible. Derek makes a noise, but it's not an upset one, so Stiles stays where he is. "Hey, now that you can read again, want something?"

Stiles, for his part, rolls off Derek and rustles through the trade comics he set next to his bed. Choosing an American Vampire he'd recently found used, he props himself on his elbows and begins to read. Derek stays where he is until Stiles is about four pages in, but then presses himself against the length of Stiles.

Stiles says, "Hey," but doesn't look up from the page. He works his way through the first two issues in the volume. Derek's not asleep, but his eyes are closed. Stiles turns the lights out and burrows against Derek. It's different, sure, than the wolf, but it's still Derek, and Stiles has long gotten used to the shift, alpha, beta, full, whatever, being part and parcel of the wolves.

He's not sure exactly when he falls asleep, but he wakes to Derek's plaintive whines, so different from his human throat than his wolf one. As a wolf, Stiles will dig his fingers into Derek's fur, massage behind his ears. Instead Stiles pushes his hands under the hem of Derek's shirt, settling his palms flatly over Derek's lower back, pressing their foreheads together.

He says, "You're safe, Der. I got you. The pack's got you."

Derek actually says, "Safe," and if it doesn't sound like agreement, it doesn't sound like a question, either. It's progress.

*

Peter shows up at Stiles' work around noon a day later. He comes bearing food. Stiles says, "My dad will totally figure out who killed me if this is poisoned."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Can we take this somewhere else, you think?"

Stiles is an intern, so he hasn't even got a cubicle, just a laptop at a conference table in the bullpen area. He says, "Yeah," and leads Peter out back. Nobody ever goes there, because there's a courtyard that's actually nice, whereas the back is basically just an alley.

Stiles takes the sandwich Peter hands him and says, "In the neighborhood?"

Peter doesn't bother acknowledging the flippancy. Instead, he tells Stiles, "After Paige, Derek tried learning the piano."

Stiles feels like that's quite the non-sequitur, but putting everything aside, Peter generally knows what the fuck he's talking about, and can mostly be trusted when it comes to Malia, Cora, and Derek. "All right."

"I think it was some kind of…penance, probably, but he was good at it, and it was—it was good for him."

Stiles knows there are a lot of gaps in his knowledge of Derek, but given clues, he can usually fill some of them in. "And then Kate and the fire and his belief that if he enjoyed something, he wasn't allowed to have it."

Peter's smirk is half-hearted at best. "Or maybe there was just never opportunity, who knows."

"Okay, so, Derek, at one point in his life, liked playing the piano."

"Cora and I have done some digging. There's a musical therapist in the know who works with PTSD victims two towns over."

Stiles takes a bite and chews slowly. "And you think he'll listen to _me_ if I bring this up?"

"Have you ever noticed that you're quite clever up until it comes to personal relationships, and then you become a complete lackwit?"

Secretly, Stiles has noticed this. He opens up his mouth to say something cutting about Peter's own familial relationships, but Peter's staring at him, eyes narrowed, _ready._ Stiles blows out a breath and says, "I'll talk with him."

"I'll pay for it."

Stiles nods tightly. If Derek wants him to fight with Peter over that, he will, but not until Derek makes that clear. He forces himself to say, "Thanks."

Peter opens his mouth and Stiles does his own bracing. In the end, though, all Peter says is, "Enjoy the sandwich."

Stiles watches him wander off and takes another bite. It really is a very good sandwich.

*

Stiles brings up the therapist as they're brushing their teeth that night. Well, Stiles has finished brushing his teeth. Derek is one of those weirdos who actually spends a full two minutes seeing to all of his pearly whites. Stiles figures that gives him time to make a pretty good push, but in the end he doesn't need to, because Derek rinses and says, "Not alone."

Derek still isn't saying much these days, even compared to usual. Thankfully, Stiles has a magic Derek-decoder ring. "Yeah, no, trust me bud, nobody in the pack is ready to let you outside on your own."

Derek looks over at him like he's considering glaring, but in the end can't be bothered. Stiles smiles his most winning smile, and tries not to be disappointed. He misses Derek's stupid glares.

*

Chris has to set up a meeting with the local LEOs in the same town Derek's appointment is in, so it only makes sense for him to take Derek. Also, with the exception of Stiles and Scott—and even that's more likely because Scott's his alpha, rather than anything to do with Scott—Derek handles Chris best. Derek's pretty good with Cora and Malia, and not bad with the rest of the pack, but it's pretty clear his comfort level is higher when Chris, Stiles, or Scott are around.

They get on the highway out of Beacon Hills without any problems, but then, Chris has heard Derek's phone buzz twenty-two times. He started counting accidentally. If it were under any other circumstance, he'd have thrown the damn thing out the window by now, but Derek is clutching it like it actually holds his heart, or some other vital organ. It doesn't take a genius to figure Stiles is texting him something inane and soothing.

About twenty minutes into the ride, Derek says, "Thanks.” The communication is so unexpected it's only because Chris is highly trained at driving through shock that he doesn't go right off the road.

Chris tightens his grip on the wheel and says, "I'm not sure what that was in reference to, but whatever it was, you're welcome and your gratitude is unnecessary."

"Friend," Derek says.

Sometimes, maybe most of the time, Chris thinks it's more than that. Like the fact that Kate took Derek's family from him, the fact that Derek knew and never harmed any of them over that, not even in the moments when he had the chance, means there's innately something greater than friendship there. Fuck only knows Derek needs everything he can get. All Chris says is, "Yes."

Derek nods his head. Says, "Grateful. For that."

Chris keeps his eyes on the road, but he smiles. "Yeah, all right."

*

He's only been home from work for an hour, and he's been texting Derek just about every single minute of that hour, but Stiles is just about to the climb the damn walls when Derek walks in to the house, Chris following him. Derek's eyes are red, like he was crying. Stiles knows Derek probably _should_ cry, but it still makes Stiles want to beat whoever made Derek do so with his aluminum bat.

Instead he just gets as far into Derek's space as he finds appropriate, and lets Derek pull him in, scent him and hold on, like somehow Stiles can make everything better. He can't. He fucking would have by now. When Derek's stopped shaking, Stiles asks, "How'd it go?"

Derek buries his face in Stiles' hair, and for a bit, Stiles thinks he's going to have to prod some more—Malia swears it helps with the reintegration process to be made to talk—but then Derek answers, "Played the xylophone."

"Sweet, was it one of those where every key-thingie is a different color?"

Derek just snorts at that. It's the closest he's come to laughing since he turned back, so Stiles buries a grin in his chest. He pulls back a little. "Pack's coming over for dinner tonight. Wanna help me pound and roll pizza dough?"

Derek nods and follows Stiles into the kitchen. The dough is premade. Stiles learned most of his cooking skills from the deputies who helped raised him after his mom died. Overwhelmingly, he'd learned a lot about pulling meals together from basic ingredients in thirty minutes or less. It doesn't really need all that much pounding or rolling, but both activities are calming as hell, and it's not as if it hurts anything.

He hands that task over to Derek, who shoots him an appreciative look. Meanwhile, he roughly chops onions and garlic, slices a couple of rolls of chicken sausage, and dumps it all into a sauté pan to brown a bit. Stiles gives the task of spreading the tomato paste over the dough to Derek, since it's pretty meditative. 

When Derek is finished, Stiles spreads the toppings out evenly, sprinkles on some oregano and thyme, and the two of them break open packages of mozzarella and lightly cover the surface of the pizzas. Stiles slides one into the oven, wishing, not for the first time, that he had more oven to work with.

Derek comes up behind him and curls around him, his chin resting on Stiles's shoulder. Stiles flips the light on in the oven, and both of them stand there, watching the crust puff and the cheese melt.

*

Derek's been going to therapy twice a week for three weeks when Stiles gets the first text he's received from Derek since Derek was taken captive. The therapy has definitely been helping. Derek has been slightly more vocal and capable of expressing wants and needs. But "slightly more vocal" mostly means that sometimes he uses verbs _and_ nouns when he speaks up now. It doesn't mean he's exactly talkative.

So the text is a surprise. Even more surprising is the fact that it's fairly wordy. It says, "You make me feel safe but I want you to go back to school."

Stiles isn't entirely sure how to respond, but he doesn't think it's a good plan to keep Derek waiting. Text-response anxiety isn't fun for anyone, and Derek's had enough of things that aren't fun in his life for forever. Stiles goes with, "I don't know if I can focus being that far from the pack right now."

Derek's answer takes longer. Stiles is patient, though. Even before this whole clusterfuck, talking with Derek about anything real or involving emotions had often taken a fair amount of stamina and willingness to hold his tongue. Stiles had mostly sucked at it. It's admittedly a bit easier over text, which might be the point.

Eventually, Derek comes back with, "There can be Skyping. A lot of it."

"Don't even front. You'll sit in front of the camera and just stare at me for ten minutes until I give up and sign off."

"If I shift I could probably manage a howl or two."

_Too soon,_ Stiles almost types, but he manages to stop himself. The last thing he wants is to be discouraging Derek's process, whatever the fuck that process looks like. He rubs a hand over his face. "You don't get to decide this for me."

"No. But I'm asking you not to make the decision all about me."

Stiles grits his teeth, then mutters, "fuck it," and types, "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe somebody SHOULD make all their decisions about you?"

Derek doesn't respond to that, and Stiles is wondering if maybe he should apologize—although for what, he's not certain—when Derek comes into Stiles' room, where he's poking at some research for Kira. He lifts Stiles out of his chair and puts him solidly on his feet. Stiles says, "Whoa, hey, I thought we were past bodily violence to express our emotions."

Derek tilts his forehead against Stiles and says, "I—can I. I, uh."

"Whatever you want," Stiles says, because it's the only answer that makes sense.

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised when Derek's lips press to his, hesitant, seeking. He is, though, and he almost pulls away in that moment of surprise. He catches himself and instead leans into the touch of their lips. He doesn't deepen it, and neither does Derek. Stiles has no idea how long they stand there, breathing each other's air, lips brushing more as a matter of distance than intent. At some point, Stiles brings his hand up to Derek's cheek and says, "Hey. Hey there."

Derek turns his head to kiss the inside of Stiles's palm. It tickles, and Stiles laughs a little at the sensation. "If this is your argument for me going across the country from you, I have to tell you, it could use some work."

This startles something suspiciously laugh-like from Derek. "This—this is why. Why I need that."

"If this is some kind of 'everything I love turns to—'"

"No. This." Derek sighs and pulls away, pacing. After a moment he sits on the bed. "I have therapy."

Stiles nods. "Okay."

"To help me…be me."

"I would argue among other things, but sure." Stiles sits down next to Derek, but doesn't touch him. 

Derek grabs his hand. "School helps you be you."

"I'm not talking about dropping out, Der. I'm talking about transferring. People do it all the time."

Derek spends several minutes looking like he might take out a wall of the house with the pure level of frustration in his gaze. Then he says, "People Skype all the time. For college. And work. And stuff."

Stiles looks at the clenching and unclenching of Derek's free fist. He thinks of the way he used to worry—still does, now and then—about what his dad gives up to keep Stiles healthy and whole. He says, "I'll think about it, okay? I've got another week before I have to sign up for classes. I'll—sleep on it."

Derek's breath out is shaky. Stiles says, "I mean, who's up for a nap, right? This guy is."

They fall back on the bed, Derek's weight not quite what it should be, but still warm and solid beside him.

*

It's been a long time, long enough that Stiles can't even really remember how long it's been, since he sat on their front stairs and waited for his dad to get home. Two nights after The Kiss—there have been more, several more, but that one is always going to be the one that gets the capital letters—Derek falls asleep and Stiles can't. He gets up and pokes at some research, even does some pushups, sit ups, burpees, things that should expend the nervous energy, but nothing is working.

Chris is sleeping upstairs, which means dad will come home. Mel will probably be there later, too, although sometimes she goes home instead. But if one of them is here, dad will be as well. Stiles prods at the realization, having never really thought it over. Stiles…likes it. Likes that he knows his dad isn't alone, has someone, two someones, watching his back.

He sits on the front stairs and plays games on his phone, catches up on emails, does whatever the hell he feels like, until his dad's car pulls into the drive. It's past midnight, so something held him over. He was supposed to be off at eleven. Long shifts have always been more common than not.

His dad walks up and drops down next to him, says, "Hey kid."

"Hey daddy," Stiles says, his voice smaller than he was expecting.

His dad's arm comes around him, tugging him in. "You okay?"

He leans into his dad and tries to say, _yeah, fine_. Instead he asks, "Could you have left mom? Even for a couple of years of college or—not forever? Just for a while."

His dad sighs. "The father in me wants to lie to you, say that of course I would have, because I think going back is the right thing for you, and I want you to do it. But I tried to stop hiding the truth from you around the same time you stopped hiding it from me, so, honestly, I don't know."

Stiles bites his cheek for a second and then admits, "We kissed. Derek. And me. A couple of days ago."

"Huh. Only a couple of days ago?"

Stiles blinks at that, pulling away to look at his dad. "Um. I guess we were the last to know?"

"I think even _Scott_ got there before you this time," his dad tells him.

"Well that's just embarrassing," Stiles mutters. 

His dad laughs a little. "Thing is, Stiles, by the time I might have left your mom to go to school or something, her parents had both died, and, well, I mean, you know mine couldn't be counted on. I didn't have anyone here I trusted to be there if she needed anything. A cup of flour, a meet up for coffee, anything."

"And if you had?"

"I dunno, kid. Too many ifs. But you've gotta know, Chris and Mel and me, we've got his back. Alan sure as hell does. Shit, even Peter, to some extent. And it's not as if Scott's that far away, and worse comes to absolute worst, Liam and the Puppy Brigade are still in town. _Nothing_ is going to happen to your boy, not unless it takes all of us first."

"I know," Stiles says softly. "I _know._ It's stupid to even be worried—"

"When you love someone else, I'm not sure anything is really stupid."

"Pretty sure everything is," Stiles disagrees.

His dad grins. "Well, maybe that."

Stiles swallows. "Leaving him terrifies me."

His dad nods. "I know. I know, kid, and I get it. But it's not like this'll be the first thing you've done that terrifies you."

Stiles slumps back against his dad. "Never seems to stop sucking."

"No," his dad says. "No, it doesn't."

*

The evening Stiles gets back to school, the first thing he does is video chat Derek on his phone. His dorm room's the size of a stunted Hobbit hole, and there's nothing on the walls yet, obviously, but he gives Derek "the grand tour," so he can have some bearings on where Stiles is. Derek takes it all in and says, "Picture of Lincoln Memorial'd be better."

Stiles rolls his eyes even as he's pretty pleased by Derek's relative assertiveness and syntactical clarity. "Or you could come see it yourself."

He doesn't put too much emphasis on it. He knows Derek will come to him when the thought of going that far from his established zone of safety doesn't send him into a downward spiral with the force of a tornado.

Derek doesn't say anything, and Stiles is about to make sure it was clear he isn't expecting an immediate visit, when Derek speaks up again, changing the subject. "I played piano. Today. At therapy."

Stiles sits down on the bare mattress in the room. "Yeah?"

Derek looks down and then back up with a small smile. "I sucked."

"Peter, he—he said you haven't played since, uh, before. Before."

Derek nods. 

Stiles wishes like hell he could pull Derek into him, kiss him a little, scratch at the back of his head the way they both like. Sometimes doing what's best for probably everyone is so fucking overrated. "Did you enjoy it?"

Derek closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them back up, it's easy to see the hint of calm that's often missing from them nowadays. "Yeah. Yes."

Stiles smiles. "I expect audiograms. Maybe a recital."

Derek flips him off, but the calm never leaves his eyes.

*

Two days later, Stiles wakes up to message with an attached audio file. It's Heart and Soul. There's only one player, the timing is a little off, and there are stumbles in the progression of the keys. Stiles makes it his default ringtone.

*

Malia goes to the community college in Beacon Hills. When Derek makes the move to seek out piano lessons, she coordinates with him so she can pick him up and drop him back off at the Stilinski house afterward. Chris makes it a point to be there one day, around the time he knows Derek will be getting back from the lessons. Noah and Melissa are never around at that time of the afternoon, and Derek is always just a little less high strung after the lessons than he is just about any other time. Except maybe after his chats with Stiles.

Derek probably knows Chris is in the house before he even opens the door. He waves a little when he steps inside and goes to the kitchen. He comes back to the den with a glass of water and sits down on the sofa, where he can face Chris. 

Chris swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He's been planning this for weeks, but now that he's made the decision to vocalize it, it seems…improper. That's not the right word. He's not sure of the right word. Derek's nostrils flare and he tilts his head. "Chris?"

"Packs—packs have territory. Dens."

Derek nods slowly. Chris forces himself to take a seat. "I—I've been looking at houses. Melissa's been considering selling, with Scott off at college and the house being more than she really wants to take care of. We could come here, of course, but—"

"But Claudia," Derek says.

Chris grimaces, but it's the truth. This is her space, always will be. She's clearly gracious enough to share it, but the house will never be his and Noah's and Melissa's. The only thing for it—the only thing for them—is a fresh start.

"I kept looking everywhere in town, different locations, sometimes even outside the borders, but nothing…nothing seemed right."

Derek takes another long sip and watches Chris. Chris draws a breath. "I was looking for a house for the three of us. But then I—I saw this place for sale. It backs up to the preserve, nearest neighbors are a solid couple of miles away on either side. Seven bedrooms and they're calling it a tear-down, selling it for the land, only. Only I think it can be saved."

"Chris. I don't—"

"She's one of those old Victorians. Turn of the century. Probably belonged to one of the founding families. They're not wrong in that she'd have to be gutted. But she's dirt cheap, literally, I suppose, since it's the dirt they're selling. We could open up the bottom floor. There's two of these grand bay windows and I'm pretty sure the glass can be restored. The whole thing'd be flooded with light. Probably great acoustics for a piano, so you could practice. 

"The rooms are small right now, but we could combine several of them, making it a four bedroom. That way you and Stiles could have a space, and Scott'd have a room, and there'd be one leftover for whenever other pack members needed a place. I—" Chris stops then, suddenly refocusing in on Derek. "If you wanted. If it wasn't, if it didn't feel like I was trying to replace them."

Derek toys with the glass in his hand. "I—I'd want to be on the mortgage. I have money."

"It could be yours, if that was what you wanted."

Derek shakes his head. "You, me, Melissa, Noah, Stiles, Scott. Doesn't—doesn't have to be equal. But none of us can sell without all the others."

Chris feels the knot he's been carrying in his chest for longer than he can remember loosen. It's such a weird sensation that at first it's nearly discomfiting. He rubs at his chest and says, "Yeah. That's—I like that."

Derek smiles softly. "Yeah. Let's buy a house."

*

Just the thought of presenting the idea to Noah makes Chris a ball of nerves, so he forces himself to do it that evening. He brings dinner to him at the station, and Noah takes one look at him and says, "Spill."

It's unnerving. The last time someone could read him that well… Chris isn't sure there was a last time. "I'm buying a house."

Noah reaches out and Chris hands the bag to him. Noah peers inside even as he casually says, "And?"

"More of a 'with.' With Derek."

Noah looks up at that. "Well, that got weird fast."

Chris quirks his lips. "Yeah, ah. He—that is, we, we want it to be owned by you, Stiles, Melissa, and Scott."

Noah says, "Come again?"

"For the pack."

"Chris." Noah swallows. "I _have_ a house."

"I know," Chris tells him quietly. "And I—I know it's where you raised Stiles." He leaves Claudia out of it. He doesn't need to say her name for her to be part of this equation. "But it's _your_ house. The same way Melissa's is hers. Neither is ever going to be ours."

Noah's expression softens. "And that's what you want."

There have been very, very few times in Chris's life when his desires have mattered. It takes every ounce of courage he has to simply nod his head once.

"Okay," Noah says. "Let's talk with Mel."

Chris sits, not entirely sure what has just happened. Noah looks down at his desk and says, voice husky, "Claudia, she—she always called me 'whipped.' Laughed when she said it, like it was her favorite thing about me. I suppose I'm just weak when it comes to the people I fall in love with."

Chris feels like he can't breathe for a moment. The enormity of the admission settles inside him with a kind of warmth he'd forgotten, if he ever knew it. "Maybe. Or maybe just strong enough to love like that."

Noah's eyes are still wet when he looks up, but he smiles, small and real. "Maybe."

*

Derek flies Stiles back for fall break. Stiles says, "That's ridiculous, Derek, I'll come home in a month, at Thanksgiving."

Derek says, "Please," and Stiles sighs and throws his hands up in the air.

Stiles's dad picks him up from the airport, but Derek's in the car with him, and Stiles doesn't even fidget when Derek hugs him for a solid three minutes the second he's past the security gate. Instead he says, "Hey there," and lets Derek do what he's gotta do. 

When Derek finally manages to disengage enough to just be tucked into Stiles's side, his dad latches on to his other side, squeezing into him from that angle. "Good to have you home, kid."

Stiles leans into his dad's touch. "Let's go see this money pit we've all signed our souls away on."

Derek scoffs. "Your soul didn't cover the down payment."

Stiles laughs, giddy not only at the humor, but at the ease of the comeback, the way language is slowly becoming a thing Derek controls again. The car ride to the house is about half an hour, in which time he catches them up on the latest project for his criminal procedure lab, and the scheduling mess he's run into with his work-study next semester. They're both ongoing sagas.

Stiles has seen pictures of the house—most of which made him concerned about the state of Chris's and Derek's mental health. He has to admit, though, in person, there's something about it. She's…grand, he supposes. Oh, sure, she needs work, but underneath, well. 

"We started work on the inside," Derek says, walking up the stairs. There's a wrap-around porch. The boards are rotting, but the structure is holding all right.

Inside there's mostly a lot of temporary walls. Derek walks through the space, pointing at where they're cleaning out and refurbishing the wood burning fireplace, how he's learning about the repair of old glass and casement, how the kitchen is going to connect to the rest of the living space, where he thinks he'll put the piano he has his eye on.

Stiles squeezes his hand at that last. The voicemails with just music steadily come five times a week, now that Derek takes piano at Malia's community college, and pays for practice time there as well. He's sent Stiles information on programs to be a music educator. They haven't discussed it beyond Stiles saying, "Follow your fucking bliss, man."

He just wants Derek happy. It's stupid and cliché and impossibly true.

But even if all Derek could play for the rest of his life was Chopsticks, Stiles would sit by him on that piano bench every night and listen to it. Sometimes, Stiles thinks love is that simple. 

Derek shows him the bedrooms. They've knocked out two walls to create two masters with en suites, one for Stiles's dad, Chris, and Mel, and another for Derek and himself. Scott and Kira have a dedicated room should they choose to use it, and the last two rooms are being made into combination office and guest room spaces.

"Chris thinks we should finish the basement to have a real laundry room, and another guest space, and dormer out the attic for another common area and mother-in-law suite of sorts," Derek explains.

Stiles turns to face Derek. "Chris thinks that, huh?"

Derek shrugs, looking at the ground. "Well. Chris suggested the logistics."

Stiles laughs, but it's fond, not mocking. "Hey, if you build it, they will come."

Derek looks up at him. "I've never seen that movie."

Stiles's dad, who's checking out something in the room intended for him, pokes his head out and says, "Never, seriously?"

"Guess we know what we're doing tonight," Stiles says.

"Going to the Stilinski School of Movies?" It's not even really a question. Derek knows how these things work.

"We're gonna learn you real good," Stiles tells him.

Derek darts in for a kiss. "I'm ready to be learned."


End file.
